


pickle and nutella sandwiches on rye

by RainingPrince



Series: Theoretically Canon-Compliant but largely unrelated Good Omens shorts [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Extrapolation from canon, Gen, Unplanned Pregnancy, Waiting for a pregnancy test is the longest 2 minutes of one’s life, i invented an estranged sister for Harriet because it felt right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27058960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince/pseuds/RainingPrince
Summary: She honestly wasn’t sure which option was worse.
Relationships: Harriet Dowling & Original Female Character, Harriet Dowling/Thaddeus J. Dowling
Series: Theoretically Canon-Compliant but largely unrelated Good Omens shorts [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594831
Kudos: 6





	pickle and nutella sandwiches on rye

**Author's Note:**

> Getting some thoughts and feelings out, experimenting with Headcanons, this may or may not make any sense.  
> Was beta’d, lost track of who.  
> Read the end notes for content/trigger warnings.

To look, or not to look.

That is the question.

Harriet scowls internally at 3 years of community theater in her 20s; her lasting impression of pompous asshattery and drama backstage, and a handful of lines from characters she hadn’t even played.

It sounded ridiculous, but honestly those were her choices.

Not to look would be to suspend disbelief. Would be to go about her life pretending this wasn’t happening, that she could preserve the illusion of normalcy for that much longer and ignore the enormity of what this could entail. It also ran the risk of getting slammed with reality at a later date when she was even less prepared.

To look would be to be proven one way or another. Right or wrong, yes or no, dead cat or live cat, there would be a cat one way or another. Well, maybe not the best simile, but you could forgive her for mixing metaphors right now, it’s a little bit stressful.

What if she was right?

That would mean upheaval, conversations, negotiations, stress. Her family is still in the US, this isn’t her home and she would likely be here for the foreseeable future because flying would be out of the question. She might be able to negotiate her cousin coming to visit, or maybe her sister- though they hadn’t spoken in years. Monica had never liked Tad, and with good reason. As much as she’d hoped they would get along, he had a lot of trouble with Monica’s… everything. And the two of them had drifted apart as an unfortunate result. Sometimes, Harriet wondered if that was her fault (it absolutely was, and she was trying to come to terms with that, she really was). She’d never wanted to choose between her sister or her husband so she’d just… not. Which was a sort of choice after all, wasn’t it?

Maybe this would be a good excuse to call her?

Getting off track.

Food! They had plans to serve sushi at a fundraiser next week, she would have to call the caterer and change her order. Oh, no, down that way lies madness, too many things to think about.

Her body. Harriet was never particularly stressed about her size, she was fairly average for an American woman and tended to slip through the cracks in terms of unwanted comments on the subject. Sure, she’d had a hard time ever finding clothes that fit and endless diet ads weren’t exactly helping; but she managed to make it out mostly unscathed. What she worried about was the bloating, the sickness, the fatigue and aches, the limited mobility and the raging hormone-driven meltdowns she’d observed when her mother had had her little sister. Those never looked fun. Harriet did hope she would crave popsicles, those had always cheered her mother up. Or something else that was easy to find; she didn’t fancy the thought of some obscure, ridiculously complicated craving like pickle and nutella sandwiches on rye bread and only cut into triangles. Something simple was best, something Tad could grab for her without too much struggle.

Tad.

She’d been aware when they got married that he has eyes on politics. They’d met when her college roommate had introduced them at a candidacy announcement event some years ago. They’d dated through three years of these parties, and she’d accepted his proposal still riding the high of a particularly thrilling election.

He wasn’t exactly distant, emotionally speaking. Physically? Yes, he traveled a lot and she wasn’t always up to tagging along. But when he was home, they were good. Maybe not as passionate as they had been at first, but good. Hadn’t she read something about the Greeks having more words for love? Something about a sustained, older love, like fine wine, or silver foxes.

They were good.

They weren’t ready for this.

What was she even going to tell him?

What if she was wrong?

The thought somehow got caught in her throat and stuck there, lodged just behind her tongue and refused to move.

She honestly wasn’t sure which option was worse.

Shaking only slightly, Harriet checked the time. 1 minute, 27 seconds left.

Deep breath in… let it out.

What do people do in this situation? What would her therapist say?

“Ground yourself, and call a loved one.”

Tad was out of the picture, he’d be in meetings all day and he wasn’t even in the UK. Taking another deep breath, Harriet let the swell of anger and frustration crest, and then fall.

Mom was right out. Not even a contender.

Dad, dead; god rest his soul. 

She didn’t really have a lot of friends here yet, they had only been stationed here for a few months and she'd spent most of it simpering simpatico with other ambassadors, Prime Ministers, Judges and their spouses at parties she still wasn’t sure she knew the purpose of. She’d been rather out of it for the last three weeks.

Oh, that was probably a sign, an early symptom.

Yet another glance at the clock. 41 seconds left.

Biting her lip, Harriet flipped open her cell and through her contacts as quickly as she could.

She hadn’t dialed this number in 3 years and 2 dead cell phones, but she’d kept it in her contacts just in case.

The phone rang ominously in the little parlor bathroom and Harriet desperately tried to forget about the clock ticking away.

She was about to give up when the line crackled to life and a voice that offered far more relief than words could ever express asked “Hello, this is Conway speaking. Can I help you?”

She opened her mouth and that thought came right back, curling up and holding onto Harriet’s vocal cords and refusing to let anything past.

_ What if she was wrong? _

“Hello?”

It was hard to breathe.

“I’m gonna hang up if you don’t say anything,” the voice warned, and that did it.

“Monica-“ it came out a squeak, a quiet sob, the only sound she could manage around the vastness of this.

The line was silent, and she worried that she’d missed it. That her tiny little cry had been too little too late and she’d have to face this on her own. “Mo-Monica,” she sobbed again.

“... Harry?”

“Monica!” Harriet scrambled against the vinyl floor tiles and sat up straighter. “I’m so scared,”

“Harriet, what’s going on?!”

“I… I’m scared to look.”

“Look at what?”

Monica sounded panicked, her voice cracking, and for a brief moment Harriet wondered if it was justified. Wondered what she might think of this call out of the blue, wondered if she was just blowing this out of proportion. She bit back a swear. “I might be pregnant.”

There was a loud whoosh of air, a sigh of some caliber but it was unclear if it was relief or shock. Or both.

“Did you take a test?”

Harriet nodded.

“Harry?”

“Yes,” she croaked, tongue made of sandpaper.

“What does it say?”

“I’m afraid to look.”

“Ah.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“What do you need from me?”

Well that’s a very large question. What did she need? That might take some thinking.

“I hardly recognized your voice.” Harriet mumbled. “But I could never forget the way you say my name.”

“Harry,” it was fond, patient.

“How long have..?”

“How long have I been popping feminems?” Monica chuckled. “5 years in February.”

“Congratulations. I know you wanted… this for so long. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you.”

A chuckle. “You know how in books, they try to show you how emotional or momentous a scene is by repeating the words ‘deep breath’ over and over and over? I could never understand how anyone got through those ‘momentous announcements’ or whatever without falling over from oxygen oversaturation. I’m feeling a little bit lightheaded myself.”

“Harry?”

“A witness.”

More silence. “A witness?”

“Just- would you stay? While I… while I check?”

Another woosh, much quieter. “Sure, Harry. I can do that.”

“I’m not ready.”

“Who’s ever ready for this?”

She had a point.

“Here I go,” Harriet whispers, and sits up to reach for the little plastic bombshell.

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes/TWs:  
> Pregnancy, food, (brief!) mention of a dead animal (related to Schroedinger's cat paradox), brief body/size thoughts and mentioned diet culture, brief mention of a dead parent (past)  
>   
> *feminems = estrogen, HRT


End file.
